


Patient 197

by JamieDragon



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mental Institution, Dark, Dubious Consent, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Established Relationship, Heavy Angst, Homophobia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt No Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Jaskier | Dandelion Needs a Hug, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Medical Torture, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mild Blood, Moon, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Rescue, Suicide Attempt, The Witcher Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:15:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24853675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JamieDragon/pseuds/JamieDragon
Summary: Prompt from the Witcher Kink Meme:Jaskier vividly recalls a life as a bard companion to a monster slayer named Geralt. He recalls being in love with him. What he can't remember is how he got here, to this horrifying place where they keep him sedated and every day a man tries to convince him that his memories aren't real and that homosexuality is a disease.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 25
Kudos: 241
Collections: Witcher Kink Meme (Dreamwidth)





	Patient 197

**Author's Note:**

> Oh boy. This almost wrote itself and turned pretty dark along the way. Please heed the tags!
> 
> TW for rape/noncon, suicide attempt, blood, eating disorder, and mental issues/breakdown. It's not very graphic (except for the mental health issues), but it's there, so be warned.
> 
> I'm actually really happy with this one. I love me some angst, and I think I got to channel my own mental health issues a bit. I tried to stick mostly to Jaskier's feelings and experiences, and how his thoughts break down over time, rather than describing exactly what is done to him.
> 
> It feels a bit bad to let this be the end, so I might do a second part of his recovery. But for now, I hope you enjoy. ♡
> 
> (And the patient number, 197, i got by adding up the numbers for "don't trust them". Because stupid details are stupid.)

The room is clean. Too clean. Enough for Jaskier to want to spit on the floor, just to disrupt the perfection. Every room was like that. Too clean or too dirty. None of the homely intermediate of having a cobweb in the corner and a couple of dust bunnies under the bed. It was either or. Black or white. Pristine squalor or repulsive immaculateness.

"Tell me again."

Jaskier's gaze moves through the room, looking for something, anything, that isn't perfect. Anything besides himself that is.

"Julian?"

The name makes him look at the man. Too clean. Too perfect. Not a hair out of place. Jaskier tries to imagine what flaws he must be hiding under his clean white coat and his clean black pants. Probably a very pimply ass. Or a third nipple. Or a tiny conjoined twin.

"Jaskier." It isn't the first time he has corrected the man, even today, and he knows it won't be the last either. 

The man sighs. "Julian, you have to stop this. I understand that it's difficult, but the first step is to acknowledge that there is something wrong. I can't help you if you won't let me."

"My name is Jaskier. No one calls me Julian anymore. Not since I became a bard."

"But you're not a bard, Julian, are you?"

"Yes. I am."

"No, you're not. It's part of your dilutions, of your sickness. This story about you travelling the world with a white wolf-"

"THE White Wolf."

"-it's all in your head."

Jaskier hates how he speaks about Geralt. It's bad enough when people call the witcher a monster, the butcher. It's quite another when they pretend he doesn't even exist. When they try to convince  _ Jaskier  _ he doesn't exist, that Jaskier has just made him up.

"If I'd made him up I would have made him less grumpy," he mutters under his breath. 

"What was that?"

"I said I miss his massive cock!" Jaskier exclaims. He wants out of this room,  _ has _ to get out. It's no better outside really, but at least the questions will stop. For a time. Getting out is actually rather easy. All that's required is a proper tantrum. And fortunately for Jaskier he is quite adept at throwing tantrums. "You should have seen it! How it glistened in the sun. Oh, I'm telling you, you haven't lived until you've been bent over a fallen tree as a witcher fucks you from behind, his fingers in your mouth, and you kinda wish there were two of him so you could suck him off at the same time and-"

It always feels like a small victory, seeing the doctor turn both pale and flustered at the same time. Jaskier relishes it. Tiny victories is all he has in here.

"Melitele's tits, I would keep his cock inside me the whole night afterwards, keeping it nice and warm for him. You know, freezing your cock off isn't just an expression. It's a horrible possibility. And I'm nothing if not a good little slut w- who…"

A needle enters his arm, and he feels the effects almost immediately. As the perfect room with the perfect doctor and the perfect needles and the imperfect broken bard drifts away, Jaskier is only disappointed that he won't get to finish the story. 

  
  


He's cold. It's dark outside his tiny barred window, the moon painting stripes across the door. It's locked, he knows. But he would still like to try opening it. Maybe tonight is the night when the night nurse has forgotten to lock the door. Maybe tonight is the night he will be able to escape.

But he can't escape. He can't try. He can't even pick up the blanket which has fallen off the bed, leaving him cold and alone. His arms and legs are stuck in those horrible leather straps, which could have been kinky and nice if it was Geralt who put them there, but now only makes him feel small and afraid.

He wants Geralt. Wants his White Wolf to come and rescue him. Or at least cuddle up with him so he doesn't have to feel so cold.

But he can't call for Geralt. Doesn't have the energy to form the word, the name. So instead he howls at the moon stripes, like it's he, and not Geralt, who is the wolf. He howls until there's angry banging on his door. And then he howls a bit more, until the nurses enter and sticks his arm again. He hates the drugs. But he hates even more to lay awake, tiny and cold and alone. And he also hates his dreams, where Geralt always shows up, busts down the door, and sweeps him away, only to be gone when Jaskier wakes up. Of all the bad options, being pulled back into darkness is one of the better ones.

"Repeat after me: my name is Julian Alfred Pankratz."

"Jaskier." He doesn't look at the doctor. Some days he doesn't have the energy to keep his head up. To speak. To think. To exist. 

"Julian." He hates that sigh. It reminds him too much of his father, of what a disappointment he is. Failure. Geralt was the only one who had really liked him, loved him, for just being himself.

He doesn't answer. He's too tired, so very tired. Maybe the doctor can see that too, because he closes his book. "Maybe that's enough for today."

And Jaskier tries to feel relieved. 

  
  


The pain is excruciating. It sparks like lightning through his body, consuming him and making him belong to it. Turns him into pain and light and fire and a scream that won't break free.

During the breaks, when he lays limp and shaking, they show him pictures. Pictures of men. Strong men. Beautiful men. Young men. Men with beards. All kinds of men. Men who Jaskier would feel drawn to, if he could feel anything besides the pain, if he could remember how to think.

When he cries, they tell him it's for his own good. It's to cure him. If he can learn to associate naked men with pain, he can become free of his perversions, of his sickness.

In those moments he promises them that he has learned, that he'll be good, will never even look at another man again, if they just stop with the pain. But they never do. And later he hates himself for bending to their wishes and threats. Hates that he isn't stronger. Hates that he's starting to believe them.

  
  


He brakes a mirror one day. Opens his wrist up and stares mesmerized at the blood. So much blood. And such a pretty colour. He should get a nice waistcoat in that colour when he gets out of here. Geralt would like that. And it would be so practical for when they're on a hunt and he gets blood spatter on his clothes. No one will be able to tell!

Someone is laughing. Quite loud and hysterical. It's not until the nurses wrestles the shard from his bloody hand that he realizes that he's the one laughing. 

  
  


"What is your name?"

"J… Jaskier?"

"No. Try to remember."

"It's… My name is… Julian."

"Very good! You're making great progress."

Jaskier, no Julian, nods his head. It's full of cotton, so it's easy. The praise gives him a tiny spark of warmth inside, and he really wants to hold on to it, to get more if he can. But he feels guilty for doing so, and he can't entirely remember why.

  
  


It's not Geralt's cock. It's not as big. Not as nice. Not as everything else he would describe it as if he could remember how to describe things.

It's not Geralt's cock, but it's  _ a _ cock, and Julian sucks dutifully on it. Because he wants to. Because he chooses to. It's a way to remind himself that he can, and that he likes it. It has nothing to do with how much stronger the other man is, or with the hand gripping his hair and forcing his head closer. It's because he wants to do this. It has to be.

  
  


Nothing tastes good anymore. No, that's wrong. Nothing tastes  _ anything  _ anymore. Julian forces himself to eat anyway, enough for the nurses to be content. They loom close by, much in the way… someone?... used to loom. Maybe? He can't remember. What had he been doing then? Playing? No, that can't be right. Julian doesn't play music. Doesn't even write it. He isn't allowed a pen because… because… he had done something. Something that had to do with… red? No, that's not correct either. Red was for his waistcoat. He should get a new shirt too. The one he has is not a great fit, and he can see angry lines on his arms. He tries to remember where they came from. From a hunt? No, hunting is only in his mind. Just like the music, though it has been very silent lately. Silence… The thing someone looming would like. Why can't he remember?

But he  _ can _ remember the horrors of being force fed, so even though his stomach protests and the food tastes like sawdust, he forces it down. It's easier to eat now and throw up later instead of refusing to eat at all.

  
  


"I spoke with your parents today. They are very happy with how far you've come, and they can't wait to get you home soon."

His parents? But they hated him, had disowned him? No… no, they loved him. They had made sure he was dragged out of his made up life, and had gotten him a place here, gotten him help. The hate was his own. The hate he felt towards himself every time he touched a man, even though he knew how wrong and disgusting it is.

But his parents must be really old by now, because Julian has been here for centuries. 

"I can go home?" The thought is both comforting and frightening. 

"Soon. We still have some work left to do, but you'll be home soon."

  
  


He lays in bed, watching the stripes of moonlight on the door. He feels like it's reminding him of something, but he's not sure what. Some _ one _ maybe? No. Probably not. There is no one outside this building who even knows about him. Only his parents, and he can't see how they would be connected to the moon. Maybe connected to stripes? Like the ones on his arm? No, that was something else. That was the striped waistcoat. The one he would reward himself with for being so good.

There's a sound outside the door. Knocking? Banging? But he's not howling. He's being so good and quiet. Isn't he? He feels tears in his eyes at the realization that he has failed yet again. Never good enough. Always wrong and disappointing and a failure. He is trying so hard and he doesn't know what else to do because he's so tired and it's never enough.  _ He's  _ never enough.

"I'm sorry," he tells the moon. "I'll be better. I promise."

He would wipe his tears away, but his arms are stuck and he can't. 

And then, suddenly, he must have gotten loose somehow, because there are gentle fingers against his cheek, in his hair. The moon is much closer now, falling in tendrils around his face, and he is quite sure it's speaking to him, though at first he can't make out what it's saying. And when he can, he just cries more, because the moon has the voice of a dream, of imagined love, and it's sounding so sad and so worried and so caring.

"Jaskier," it whispers. "Oh gods, Jaskier, what have they done to you."

He doesn't really have the energy to explain, but there is still something he has to correct, because the moon, like everyone else, gets it wrong.

"...ts'Julian…"

"Little lark." He can feel soft kisses against his temple, and he's quite sure he's managing to cry from his hair now, because his forehead is wet too. "It will be alright. I have you now. No one will hurt you anymore."

He feels his hands and feet get free, and then his floating, and he is warm. For the first time in an eternity he feels warm. And… safe?

The moon continues to murmur into his hair, and though he can't really make out everything it says, it's still comforting. He thinks he should be worried, being taken away from all the people who are trying to help him, but for some reason he isn't really. He just feels warm and protected, and so so tired. And though he doesn't know where they're going or what will happen, Julian thinks that everything might be alright.

He gives the tiniest howl against the solid warmth his head is resting against. He can hear the moon whisper "Sleep, little lark. I've got you," and with a sigh he lets himself drift away.


End file.
